


Bad Idea #11

by SegaBarrett



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renton gives in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Idea #11

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Risse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Risse/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Don't own Trainspotting. Honestly, it's been a little while since I read it so I hope I didn't screw it up.
> 
> Warning: Might be dub-con.

Mark Renton probably wouldn’t have won an award for having the best sense in the world, if such an award were even given out. He figured it probably was, in somewhere like goddamned Sweden where they did shit all the rest of the day and had to make their lives meaningful by giving each other awards. He had fucked up more times than he could count, and even if he had started to tabulate them, started making a list of each and every fuck up, when it had first occurred and how many times he had repeated it since, he still would have left off a few that he had been too high at the time to remember.

It had been Begbie’s idea for Renton and Sick Boy to fuck; hell knows why. It was Begbie, after all, so his plan was most likely to try and devise some kind of blackmail scenario he could use to rub in Renton’s face the next time Begbie needed someone to brow beat. Okay, fair enough. That made enough sense.  
But why was Renton even considering doing it, then? It wasn’t like he thought about that sort of thing – not usually, anyway – and if he was going to do that sort of thing he sure as hell wouldn’t want Begbie spectating.

Was it because he was afraid of Begbie’s response if he refused? After all, this was Begbie they were talking about. The man was a goddamned loose cannon and refusing him anything usually tended to spell trouble for anyone within a three-block radius.

Well, that would explain the fact that Renton was considering doing it, but not the fact that something… something had just twitched at the thought of actually doing it. Twitching as he pictured doing it, pictured Sick Boy without a shirt and in the throes of… something… what the hell was he doing?

If he had said that he had never thought of Sick Boy that way before, he would be lying to himself. There had been times, of course, but they’d been passing thoughts, when Renton was close, so close, and the flash of the other man’s face had jolted in his mind right before he came. But that… that was different. He hadn’t been in control of that, if he had been he sure as hell wouldn’t have let those images get in there. He was his mate, not his goddamned fantasy.  
His eyes must have shut, though he didn’t have any real memory of that actually happening, because suddenly everything was dark, like someone had pulled the curtains closed. He was lying – not on a bed but on a cold tile floor, hell, was this one of their bathrooms? Probably – and there was some kind of pressure on top of him that he was too out of it to really identify. 

He opened his eyes again to try and make sense of the scene, as much as his lids seemed to want to slip shut again. Everything was pretty heavy.   
There were hands on his shoulders – what in the fuck?  
Somehow Renton’s shirt got pulled over his head. All the was racing through his brain, ricocheting in their as if it was a pinball machine, was the sound of Begbie’s jeers. They increased in volume (but somehow still weren’t intelligible, just half-cocked yells and howls like they were at a football match and Begbie’s team was winning) and Renton wished he could tune them out, pop earplugs in or something because what was going on wasn’t all together unpleasant and – ohhh – now something was definitely going on down there.

Their crotches were rubbing together, and Renton could feel the tell-tale twitches and throbs that meant he was getting hard, that this was actually happening. That Begbie wasn’t going to ruin this. 

But what the hell? Where were they even? Renton tried to remember, reached down and touched the palm of his hand to the floor to check it’s material. Tile. Hell, were they going to fuck in somebody’s bathroom? Really? Wait, hadn’t that thought just gone through his head? Déjà vu, but it didn’t even matter right now as he heard the snap of his buttons becoming undone.

This was a bad idea, he knew it was a bad idea but even as he knew it, truly knew it with the kind of certainty he had had so rarely in his life, he pushed his hips back against the other man’s and moaned. He didn’t moan a name because would a nickname even fit for this situation or should he be all proper and call out “Simon?” Who the hell even knew, there wasn’t really a handbook for shagging your mates while your sort-of mate sort-of worst nemesis looks on. He’d managed to pretty much tune out Begbie, at least, and that was one bright spot.

So it stopped being a conscious thing where Renton was worrying about where to put his legs and his hands and instead he just melted into it as if he was melting into a different world, leaving this one and going off into some other dimension. Everything just kind of felt good, it was a high, a wondrous high even if there was a little too much friction in the hand – where had the hand come from? But he didn’t want it to leave so he didn’t question it. If you could even question a hand. Why would anyone bother?

It faded from outline into blur as Renton fucked into the hand and somehow, fumbling, found Sick Boy’s cock with his own. He was no longer bothered by Begbie’s presence, nor did he even really register it at all. It had all become the floating crescendo, the tidal wave, the rising pressure that was almost as big a high as what was coursing through his veins.

His eyes shut – maybe they’d been shut a while, he didn’t even know anymore – and he let go. It rocked him, seemed to go on for hours, like he could check out and come back when he was ready to continue.

He didn’t know when he shut his eyes for good and fell into a deep sleep, and he didn’t know how he’d feel about it in the morning. But he’d done it… Oh he’d done it. That was for fuckin’ sure.


End file.
